


To Be Freed By You

by TerzaRima



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Origin Story, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religious Conflict, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerzaRima/pseuds/TerzaRima
Summary: Nicolò had heard of what Muslims did to Christian men. Although his companion had been nothing less than honorable towards him, sometimes he would afix him with his intense gaze and Nicolò would be left shaken, not knowing whether his shivers were anticipation or fear. Either way, Yusuf’s big hands and broad shoulders didn’t help the situation.(The five times Nicolò resisted temptation and the one time he didn't)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 114
Kudos: 1009





	To Be Freed By You

Nicolò had heard of what Muslims did to Christian men. Although his companion had been nothing less than honorable towards him, sometimes he would afix him with his intense gaze and Nicolò would be left shaken, not knowing whether his shivers were anticipation or fear. Either way, Yusuf’s big hands and broad shoulders didn’t help the situation. 

Although they didn’t share any language besides a smattering of basic Greek phrases and what of their own native tongues they had been able to teach each other, they had fallen into a comfortable peace with each other. Perhaps, Nicolò wondered, they were too comfortable.

In truth, he sometimes feared Yusuf more when they sat quietly around the firelight than he ever had on the battlefields of Antioch and Jerusalem. Nicolò sometimes wondered if he was simply waiting, lulling him into complacency. 

The men on the ships from Genoa had warned him about the deceitfulness of the heathens. Of course, being sailors, most of their gripes had been about the condition of ports, tarifs, weights, and measures rather than theological matters, but the military men accompanying them concurred and told of the horrors committed by the Saracens. Such evil could not be solely human, they insisted, but guided by Satan.

Nicolò had taken their cautions to heart and had steeled himself for the journey to martyrdom. 

In the soft light of the flame, their words seemed, not hollow, but sometimes small. He and Yusef had killed each other more than a dozen times- if the other man was a lying demon, why had he been the first to drop his blade and suggest they make peace? 

Though of course, Satan could have realized he could not sway Nicolò through pain? Wouldn’t the prince of darkness know the great sin of his heart and use the vessel of Yusuf’s well-shaped frame and charming manner to tempt him?

Nicolò watched Yusuf while he said his prayers (five a day, far less than Nicolò had performed in the monastery), his body moving in accordance with the rhythm of devotion. His actions were ordered, but incomprehensible to the Genoan. All he could tell about the Muslim prayers was that they occurred at certain times in the day, varied in length, and always faced west. Nicolò meant to ask Yusuf what he was saying in the fortnight after their escape from Jerusalem, but at the time he lacked the vocabulary. And now... 

Were the chants a form of satanic temptation exploiting Nicolò’s Eve-like curiosity? Or were they just quiet moments between Yusuf and his god?

After he finished, Yusuf returned to the fire and smiled with his broad white teeth. He had cleaned himself with water before his prayers. He smelled… good. 

Before Nicolò had come to the Holy Land, he had lived with monks who sacrificed their personal hygiene as a sign of humility to the Lord. They would regularly forgo baths and choose to sleep in flea-infested linens. Brother Gamdulffo walked around with a rotten tooth for close to a year before allowing it to be pulled. Nicolò could have sworn the man was smug about the stench. Personally, he believed that as Christ washed the feet of his disciples before the Last Supper, He would not begrudge Nicolò cleaning himself.

Nicolò chose other ways to ward off pride and sin. While his companion babbled indecipherably (Nicolò sometimes wondered if he just enjoyed hearing himself talk), he sat, aware of the sackcloth shirt next to his skin, itching uncomfortably. The rough goat hair against his soft stomach and sensitive nipples was a constant reminder of the sinful nature of his flesh. Although he longed to remove it, especially since it prickled underneath his armpits and was an especial grievance in the heat of the desert, he wore it daily. 

He could not defeat his opponent through violence. His would be a spiritual battle. So even when the heathen managed to make him laugh with an exaggerated facial expression, the sting of the hairshirt served as the reminder of his focus on the Lord God. 

~~~+~~~

The evening sky stretched out above them with uncountable lights and infinite constellations. Nicolò thought he had known stars before the Judean Desert, but he was utterly wrong.

Yusuf dug through the coals at the edge of the fire. They were four days away from the nearest town, so it was lucky when Nicolò had found a coney. He had shot the rabbit-like animal with his crossbow in the early morning. 

“Is it ummmm, clean?” he had asked, forgetting the word he wanted.

“Yes. It is  _ halal _ ,” Yusuf had answered, “thank you for asking,” and then he smiled and his big hands gently took the game from Nicolò. 

For an instant, he felt proud for remembering the rules of the other’s faith. Then, he shook the feeling off. He was acting like a dog bringing a prize to his owner, not a man merely trying to ensure their mutual survival.

Yusuf had proceeded to butcher the creature, wrap it in palm leaf, and bury it under the soot of the previous evening’s fire. Hours later, as he brought the meat up from the steaming ground, the scent of soot was overpowered by that of melting fat and braised meat. The whole camp smelled delicious.

“See! I told you this was the way to do it. No need for a pot, no need for clean up. Just the earth and what God the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful has provided…”

“You are certainly laying it on thick. Do you want your god to send us another?” Nicolò snarked.

Yusuf took the comment in good humor and laughed, “Gratitude is the greatest prayer of all. Besides, He is your God too. Why else would you have been the one to spot it?”

Nicolò shrugged, “Maybe he was answering the rock rabbit’s prayer?”

And there it was again, that glorious laugh, the flash of joy across his eyes that always took Nicolò aback. Yusuf, unlike anyone Nicolò ever had met, seemed to enjoy his trite sense of humor. He never once scowled at his jokes although at the monastery Nicolò took penance for his loose words many times. 

Those same clergymen had also taught him that the inhuman Muslims worshipped golden idols and sacrificed the blood of Christians. Yet, it was a Sacaren who laughed at his jokes, learned his language, and insisted that their gods were the same, all-loving Lord.

“A happy connection then. The coney gets to die and we get to eat.”

Nicolò chuckled softly, “Your Ligurian has come along, beautifully. Far better than my Arabic.”

Yusuf nodded, “When I travelled through foreign ports as a merchant, I quickly learned that the only way to be fed is to ask for food,” he lifted up a choice piece of meat, “would you like a taste?”

Nicolò nodded, and then to his surprise, Yusuf leaned in and lifted the morsel to Nicolò’s lips. His heart beat faster. Had they ever been this close before? Was this just the native custom? But then, fearing the awkwardness of refusal, Nicolò used his teeth to softly take the bite from the other man, careful not to let his mouth touch Yusuf’s fingers. 

The bearded warrior looked at him solemnly, anticipating his criticism. 

The gamey flesh was tender and juicy, reminding him of feasts in his father’s hall. Nicolò had left home before he was old enough to hunt with his brothers but he still remembered the taste of hare, boar, and venison freshly roasted. 

(Yet this… the intimacy… the quiet… it reminded him more of Eucharist than anything else.)

Nicolò swallowed, ashamed of the silent heresy he had committed. 

“It’s delicious,” he said softly. Yusuf’s gaze remained intensely focused on the crusader’s reaction. Nicolò was suddenly filled with a panic. What if he knew how much the moment had affected him?

“I’m glad,” he said softly, his hand folded in his lap. Why couldn’t Nicolò stop staring at his fingers? “I enjoy feeding people,” Yusuf cleared his throat, “would you like more?”

The hairshirt was not enough. Nicolò was overwhelmed with anxiety. He was sure the other man only meant this as an act of friendship, but it was all too much. He shook his head. 

“I- I forgot, in four days is the feast of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It is customary to fast for the days before the feast,” he inched away from his companion, “I cannot eat meat, but you should enjoy your meal.”

Yusuf stared at him, “the Christians I knew in Jerusalem didn’t fast before that feast.”

Nicolò struggled to make up an excuse, “Well they are different, Greek, Eastern. True Christians obey the proclamations of the pope, including those for personal restriction and observance..."

Yusuf nodded, still looking confused. He looked as though he wanted to comment, but resigned himself to discuss logistics instead of theology's, “What can you eat? We are a bit away from any town, but if there’s some dietary requirement-” 

Nicolò felt guilty for lying to him. 

“I will survive,” he said, “We have bread and there are bitter herbs in the desert,” the fast would do him good, he thought. It would tamp down on his urges and allow him to focus on holiness. But then, Yusuf sighed and his eyes looked so full of concern that Nicolò wondered if even fasting for four days was enough to keep him from temptation. 

~~~+~~~

Although Nicolò had learned upon his arrival to the Holy Land (“Golden idols?” Yusuf laughed loudly at Nicolò’s question. The crusader scowled at his mockery, “If every Muslim could afford a golden idol, would we be sleeping in a stable?”) that much of what he had been taught about the natives was wrong, he struggled to unteach himself some biases. 

(Fantasies, voices softly suggested. He wondered if they were those of demons or his own conscience)

His travel companion (Satanic murderer started to sound too harsh three weeks after they last killed each other), was the impetus of many of these revelations. Three weeks after the Nativity of Mary, Yusuf secured them safe shelter at the inn of a young Jewish couple. Initially, the young family had eyed him suspiciously, but Yusuf spoke in a language he could not understand (“Aramaic,” he later clarified) and the young patriarch nodded and then pointed towards a distant outbuilding. 

“There was no need for them to be so uncharitable,” Nicolò muttered, resting in the straw of the barn. 

Yusuf looked at him incredulously and a little bit angrily.

“You are lucky they let us stay here at all. They have a child on the way and they have heard of what your people do to mothers and young children who won’t pray to your Christ,” he rolled up on his elbows and Nicolò swallowed softly. He looked so… righteous. Righteous and powerful and strong. 

“The only reason they allowed us shelter was because I promised the wife we would look for her sister. Last that she knew, she was in Jerusalem. And then- ” he reached over and rustled Nicolò’s hair.

“I promised the husband that if you left this barn before dawn, I would kill you myself.”

Nicolò laughed softly, as his curls fell back into place, “Did you tell him that was an empty promise?”

“Not at all. I would certainly kill you. But first, I need to sleep. Try not to cause trouble while I’m resting,  _ habibi _ ,” Yusuf turned over before Nicolò could ask him what that word meant and he was left alone with his thoughts. 

The last time the Saracen had touched him roughly was when they fought outside Jerusalem. Since then, he had been nothing short of gentle. Even though Nicolò thought, reflecting upon the violence he had seen (had enacted), he did not deserve gentleness. 

Yet, Yusuf still granted him mercy. Each day, Nicolò found a new side to this man, his former enemy who insisted that their gods were one and the same. 

They lived in a world where such kindness seemed unusual, unnatural. In the face of such goodness, Nicolò felt lost. He had gone on crusade to minister to and defend the Christians of the Holy Land. He had heard of the thousands of poorly organized peasants martyred at Xerigordos and Civetot, and he had thought that there was finally a cause he could give his life for. 

(Even now, far from papal authority, he refused to admit to himself that he would rather die than spend another year in the monastery.) 

The men around him had made the conflict so simple, like it was something out of the dusty illuminated manuscripts Nicolò had escaped from copying for the rest of his life. He remembered when Father Cosmaele had cornered him one night as they camped at Antioch, completely drunk, insisting that Nicolò never allow himself to be captured.

“My boy,” Cosmaele grabbed him, drew too close for comfort. His breath stank, “The Satan-worshipping heathens will make you piss in the baptismal fonts and then they will put your blood into the holy water and then they will cut you,” he fumbled at the front of Nicolò’s tunic, down towards his hose. He pushed the intoxicated man away. Cosmaele stumbled, “No, I got the order wrong. First they circumcise you, then they make you defoul the holy sacrament-”

Nicolò had walked away, shaken by how the man had touched him. But such things were normal, even expected, in the rough and tumble of a war camp. The fellow priest had touched him in the way it was said that the heathens tried to defile Christian men, but that was not to be questioned. They were united behind the same banner, so it was merely overzealous guidance and not sin.

Nicolò knew Yusuf would never touch him that way. He did not dare to think of how he  _ would _ touch him. 

He stared at the man’s handsome features, further softened by sleep. He looked so young. Nicolò saw his brow twitch and smiled, knowing his dreams. 

“You see them too?” he had asked, early one morning while there was still dew on the desert plain.

“Two women, warriors, riding side by side,” Nicolò had shaken his head and smiled, “the same curse.”

“How hurtful to call it a curse!” Yusuf teased, “I personally enjoy my own company and am not particularly interested in dying,” he tensed up and looked intently at his Genoan companion, “are you?”

Nicolò had been about to shake his head but had stopped himself, “I came here to die for my God, my church, and now…” he looked up. Yusuf’s dark eyes trailed on his lips, paying close attention to each word, “I don’t know what to do.”

The bearded man had sat quietly for a moment, clearly troubled by the revelation. Then, he cleared his throat.

“I too used to think that I could make my life worth something if I died. My father died taking Jerusalem for the Seljuks when I was six. I wanted a warrior’s death like he had had. I was loyal to the Turkish empire, to my brothers-in-arms, to the way of life I had always known, to the death I always expected. And that was enough to give my life meaning. Until it wasn’t.” 

Nicolò had wanted to reach out and hold his hand and he nearly did, but instead he asked, “What changed?”

Yusuf had looked at him as though it was as obvious as the sunrise and clear as the day, “We killed each other the first time. And when I awoke by you, all I could figure was that God found a greater purpose in me living for something than dying for something.”

And oh that pure and clean and good sentiment from a non-believer (not any unbeliever,  _ Yusuf _ ) sent waves of desire through Nicolò. He hated himself for it. Only a filthy person like himself, would hear such a thing and feel lust.

Nicolò, in the midst of the Jewish family’s filthy stable, felt the urge to purge himself. He wished he could pray a simple prayer of gratitude like his companion, he wished he had that certainty. But the only stability for him was based in shame. Rather than wake Yusuf up and confess (he still didn’t know what he needed to confess but he felt a truth settled in his chest like a stone), he decided to get the Genoese knife from his bag. 

In the monastery, he had learned about the potential side-effects of celibacy. The four humors regulated the body and when there was a build-up of unreleased seed, the body was put out of balance. That was why he felt so ill and weak. The only solution was to release other substances from his body. If the hair shirt hadn’t worked, if the fasting hadn’t worked, then this was a medical problem.

He would treat himself.

Desperately, he tried to bleed himself, but the shallow cuts healed too quickly to let out any great quantity of blood. He considered cutting deeper, but realized that if he hit an artery, the spray could alert his companion. He knew Yusuf, usually respectful of his customs, would object to the bleeding.

So quietly, so silently it felt like he was choking himself, Nicolò sobbed. Sacred tears were the only option. He would weep until he could not anymore and then he would continue. Pain was the only way to resist temptation.

~~~+~~~

On their way to ransom the innkeeper’s sister, the delicate peace Nicolò had thought he had managed to establish with Yusuf seemed to shatter. After a week of travel on foot, they waylaid a small party of three Norman knights returning from Jerusalem. The soldiers' horses were weighed down with spices, silver, and fine textiles, making escape for the armed men nigh impossible. Despite their best efforts (in truth, Nicolò’s best efforts- Yusuf did not seem to mind cutting the invaders down), they were only able to capture one of them without injury. 

“Pray tell,  _ frater _ ,” Nicolò said, his courtly language stilted and awkward. He had not spoken Latin in ages outside of prayer and the bloody gurgling of the man’s companions kept distracting him, “what has become of the Jews of Jerusalem?”

The man lunged at him, “Fuck a goat, filthy Saracen. How dare you defoul the tongue of the Holy Mother Church with your godless mouth.”

Nicolò was more confused than insulted. Why would the man think he was a Muslim? He looked to Yusuf who was busy binding the two injured knights. 

“He thinks I’m one of you.”   
  


The bearded man glanced over and answered back in his lovely rendition of the Genoan dialect, “You are wearing the native dress. Your fair skin has darkened in the desert. And of course, you broke the ankle of one of his friends and the wrist of the other-”

“ _ Capisco benissimo, s’immagini _ , you goddamned traitor. What are you? A goddamned Genoan? Why the fuck are you wandering with this filthy heathen? Have you no loyalty to your fellow Christians?” Nicolò kneeled down to better understand him. Despite the man’s ravings and putrid breath, he was excited to hear from a fellow Italian.

“He is my…  _ conoscente _ ,” Nicolò unwound the light cloth covering his face. Yusuf had shown him how to veil himself to protect his body against the brutal desert elements, “Are you Calabrian-”

Suddenly, the filthy knight spit directly into his mouth. Nicolò jerked away, shocked at the insult. In a flash, Yusuf was there, kneeling on the soldier’s back, pressing his disrespectful face into the dirt. The man continued to squirm and mock them.

“What are you going to do, sodomize me?” he fixed his beady eyes upon Nicolò, “you filthy fucking thing. What did it take to let him embrace you? How many times did he stick his rod down your throat before you betrayed your Church or was the promise of his heathen cock in your ass enough?”

Any momentary kinship Nicolò had felt with the man died. Of course, the rumors of how Saracens treated men were common throughout Christendom but Nicolò would not stand to be spoken to in such a crude manner. He grabbed his broadsword and kneeled in front of the crusader.

“Think carefully of what you want to say next,” he flicked the man’s cheek with the edge of the blade. A slight bit of blood oozed out, “before I cut out your tongue. We are looking for a Jewish woman named Beila, daughter of Rabbi Avraham ben Yehudah. She dwelled in Jerusalem before its fall and has not been seen since. Tell us what we need to know before I mute you for the rest of your hateful life.” 

For a tense moment, the man stared at him. His putrid gaze filled the silence with a nearly unbearable air of disgust.

Finally, one of the other knights spoke up, “ _ Amico _ , have mercy! I have heard that name before. The jewess was among the prisoners sent to our lord, Prince Bohemond of Antioch, to be ransomed.”

Nicolò could feel Yusuf’s gaze upon him. They were to return to the place of their first meeting. How romantic. 

They arose and Yusuf dragged the Calabrian over to his companions and tied their limbs together. Compassionately (too compassionately for Nicolò’s taste), he left them in the shade of a nearby cliffside with a skein of water within reach. Just as they began to mount the horses, the loudmouth crusader shouted out to them-

“Your soul is damned, sodomite.”

Nicolò forced himself to not turn back, “Fuck you, your bastard lord, and your shitty peppers.”

Later that night, Yusuf asked him about the exchange. 

“Well, Bohemond was born of incest and his parents’ marriage was anulled so he is literally a bastard. As for Calabrian peppers, they taste-”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Yusuf stated sofly. They had decided to ride through the night. It felt especially dangerous to stop outside of a town considering the wealth they carried. It was enough to pay for a king’s ransom, and Nicolò prayed it would release the innkeeper’s sister from her unscrupulous captors, “why did he accuse you of abandoning your faith because of me?” 

Nicolò’s heartbeat rapidly, but he tried to calm it, “He was a cornered man trying to lash out however he could.”

The moonlight stretched upon Yusuf's open face. It lit his profile against the dark night sky like a prince embossed on a tarnished silver coin. His broad shoulders, strong forearms, and straight back all worked together to maintain perfect control over his steed. He was nobler than any king Nicolò had ever seen and more chivalrous than any knight he had ever fought alongside. 

(Nicolò was so close to damnation, he could feel hellfire licking up against his heels.)

“He seemed rather pointed in his accusations. Particularly in their sexual nature,” Yusif tipped his head up at the night sky and laughed, “I didn’t know I looked like such a renowned seducer. I mean to convince you to…”

Nicolò silently begged for death. Permanent or temporary, it did not matter. He was not ready for this conversation, “unless, that sort of thing is, uh typical, among the Christians?”

“No. It is a mortal sin.” 

“Oh. Oh,” Yusuf seemed to avoid eye contact with his companion, “it is much the same way for us.” 

“Really?” Nicolò asked, before he realized he sounded too curious, too caring.

“Yes. It is  _ zina _ ,” Yusuf’s hands seemed to grip tighter about his reins, “forbidden, against the law,” dark eyes met his own. Nicolò silently asked the Virgin Mother why they had to be so beautiful, “a sin.”

(Why did he have to start this conversation as they were riding?)

Nicolò began to speak carelessly, trying in any way to change the topic.

“Many stories about pagan licentiousness pervade Christendom. When I was at the monastery, we received a tome of tales from our brothers to the north. It was written by a German cantoness. By the time I was able to read it, talk of it had consumed the community; in particular the martyrdom of St. Pelagius.” 

Yusuf cleared his throat.

“Well you can’t just leave me wondering. We have a long ride ahead. Tell me the story.”

Nicolò hated that he had even brought it up, “I don’t really remember it-”

“So tell me what you can remember,” and how was Nicolò supposed to deny Yusuf anything?

He described Pelagius’s beauty, his cleverness, his piety, and how he had taken his father’s place as a hostage at the court of Abdrahamen (“Do you mean ‘Abd al-Rahman’?” Yusuf interjected). Despite being imprisoned in a damp dark dungeon, the young martyr (“Fourteen years old?” Yusuf sounded outraged.) was soon raised to the position of a page. There, the Muslim king tried to tempt him, offering up the second place in his kingdom if only he’d sit on his lap and kiss him (Nicolò began to feel flushed. Yusuf had gone silent.). 

“When he refused him, Abd al-Rahman tried to take what he wanted by force. He put one hand on Pelagius’s cheek and the other on his neck so he could not move. But as he leaned in for the embrace, the youth lashed out. Angered and embarrassed, the king ordered that he be thrown over the city walls where he was recovered by his fellow Christians. His relics worked several miracles and-” 

“It sounds like the author was a wanton who used her religion to justify her indecent fantasies,” Yusuf tried to joke, but Nicolò could sense the underlying anger, “apparently others share her desires if such stories are so common among your people.”

“Stories of virgins resisting temptation are parables meant to model the virtues of Christ,” Nicolò babbled.

“They must be especially intoxicating to those serving as your priests and clergymen. Although, of course, they didn’t seem to have the same respect when it came to the virgins and boys of Antioch and Jerusalem.”

“Yusuf, I didn’t mean-”

The Saracen stopped his horse and turned in the saddle to completely face him. Nicolò struggled to bring his own stallion under control. Yusuf was a much better rider. He had been serving in the Seljuk cavalry the first time they killed each other. Nicolò had brought him down with his crossbow, but was forced to cross blades when he tried to take his steed. Yusuf had impaled him through the stomach with his scimitar, but in his dying moments Nicolò managed to fetch his small Genoese knife. He had forced himself forward on the sword just for the joy of killing his enemy. In his darker moments, he laughed at the foolishness of it all and the surprise on Yusuf’s face.

At the time, he had hated the bearded warrior enough to hurt himself; now he regretted any pain he had ever caused his friend.

“Is that what you think of Muslims? That we rape children? That we kill Christians at our slightest whim? Is that why I am merely your acquaintance, but some Frankish dog is your brother? Because I am not worthy?” His face was in shadow, but Nicolò could hear the hurt in his voice. 

“Men like that cannot conceptualize an honest friendship between a Muslim and a Christian. We needed to find out where they had taken Beila. What did you expect me to do?” 

“Nicolò, I have never been ashamed to proclaim you as my friend, even though you came as an invader to my homeland. Your people have destroyed towns, enslaved villages,  _ eaten _ the bodies of women and children and then cracked their bones to suck the marrow out. Your armies had the gall to besiege holy Jerusalem. Although the city had expected no attack, had only asked that no more pilgrims come than it could host, your kinsmen entered it and massacred its inhabitants. And yet…”

Yusuf took a deep breath. 

“I have always defended you, even when I could have been far more comfortable if I had denied you, or claimed you were my prisoner, or beaten you for show. I don’t understand why you cannot do the same for me.” 

Nicolò didn’t know how to tell Yusuf he was not ashamed of him. He lacked the words to describe his fear, his longing. He wanted to leap forward and embrace him. He wanted to show him how much he cared.

But Yusuf clicked his heels against the sides of his steed. He turned his horse around, back towards Antioch. Nicolò followed him.

Silently, he pledged to not speak again to Yusuf until they reached the city. He would pray and contemplate the Lord instead. 

The temptation was simply too great. The stone in his chest was demanding to be dislodged, but if he let go of the weight, if he confessed, he would entice Yusuf to sin too. Perhaps he could face his own damnation, but Nicolò would not condemn his partner’s soul as well. 

~~~+~~~

At Antioch, Nicolò died for the first time at the hands of someone other than Yusuf. 

Strangely enough, it was not at the blade of an enemy soldier. He had walked into the city alone, dressed in his hose, cloak, and cross-marked tunic, looking almost exactly as he did when he had disembarked the Genoan ships at St. Symeon. 

He would have almost been concerned about being recognized, except for his dark tan and short beard. And of course, half of the Genoan forces were still at Jerusalem, and the other half were mostly dead. 

As he dressed that morning he spoke to Yusuf for the first time in a fortnight. 

“It will invite less trouble if I go alone. They will accept me.”

Yusuf nodded, “like embraces like.”

Nicolò knew the man had every right to be angry. but his cold tone didn’t chill him any less. Regardless, he continued, “if I do not return by nightfall-”

“I will come for you. I understand.” 

“Yusuf, I am not angry with you. I just needed some space to think.”

The bearded man seemed to brush the issue off, “ _ Inshallah _ you will find Beila safe and sound. And you will return to me. Do not allow those idiotic Franks to kill you. I am the only one allowed to do that.”

Nicolò was too tired to laugh at the joke, but he let out a small smile. 

Nicolò actually had no difficulty at all ransoming Beila. It seemed as though none of the men guarding her particularly cared whether she was returned to her kinsfolk or not, so long as they were paid. He merely dropped the sacks of treasure he had acquired at the feet of some Norman knight tasked with managing his lord’s hostages and asked for Beila, daughter of  Rabbi Avraham ben Yehudah .

The maiden was brought out to him as he stood by his steed in the courtyard. When he saw her, Nicolò silently cursed Bohemond for his cruelty. The young woman was covered in a thick layer of dirt that only served to highlight her emaciated figure. She had clearly not been well fed during her captivity. She wore only rags and her dark hair was left unveiled. Nicolò saw its tight tangles and wondered if it could even be salvaged.

(Despite having been killed by the same man over a dozen times, Nicolò had never seen a look of rage on a human face that compared to the one he saw on Beila's.)

“If you want her things too, you’ll have to give me your other horse,” the guard said, gesturing to the small mare Nicolò had used to transport the treasures for ransom. He acceded to the extortion and stood waiting with Beila. She seemed to shrink into herself at the sight of him. He prayed that she had been left unharmed by her captors. 

The man brought back a small sack that Nicolò proceeded to load onto his stallion. Before he helped Beila onto the steed, he cloaked her in his mantle. The Norman guffawed loudly.

“Chivalry isn’t going to work on this one. She bites like a hyena.”

Nicolò decided to return and kill him. It might take a week, it might take a month, it might even take years, but he would track down this dog and slaughter him. Even if he had to find him at the ends of the earth, Nicolò would turn him into a corpse.

He smiled coldly and mounted the steed, placing Beila’s arms about his waist so she would be secure.

When they were about an hour outside the city and only a quarter of a league from his and Yusef’s hiding place, she slit his throat.

As Nicolò fell from his horse and began to choke on his own blood, he realized that he probably should have explained who he was earlier. He had been focused on getting them to safety, never considering that the traumatized girl would have considered him the enemy.

He would have to tell her he was there on behalf of her sister when he came back.

(If he came back.)

He had never been killed by anyone other than Yusuf before. What if they only lived again when they killed each other? He began to panic as he lost consciousness. He tried desperately to close his throat, to force the wound to heal, but the gash was too wide. His fingers became slick with blood and he couldn’t gain a hold onto his skin. He heard shouts in the distance and prayed that Yusuf would not find him like this. He begged  Saint Blaise of Sebaste , the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, Jesus Christ Himself, that he would see him again. He could not die without telling him what he felt, he could not, the weight on his heart was too much and he commended his soul and tried to say the last rites, but all he could think of was Yusuf’s face and that he had spent the last two weeks refusing to talk to him and now he was dying-

“ _ Habibi, habibi _ ” 

Nicolò woke to a pair of warm hands cupping his cheeks and tears falling upon his face. 

He felt his throat closing up, but whoever had killed him (he couldn’t remember yet, except that it was not Yusuf) cut in as far as his vocal cords. He could not speak.

“ _ Min fadlak la tamut, albi _ .”

In his disoriented state, Nicolò could not translate Yusuf’s speech, only feel the emotion behind it. He was never good with words. That was always Yusuf’s domain. It had been Yusuf who first put down his blade and tried to reason with him. He had always been the one to reach out to Nicolò. He had just been too afraid to reach back.

He grasped Yusuf’s curly black hair and drew him down into a kiss. 

It was messy and slightly bloody and Nicolò was pretty sure he was terrible at kissing. He knew he would hate himself for it later. He knew he would punish himself for falling into temptation. They would find Beila and explain what they could while skirting the fact that Nicolò had come back from death. And then, when the other two had established camp, Nicolò would grab one of the Frankish horse whips that Yusuf despised (“Pain only makes an animal afraid, not obedient,” he had said when they found the lashes amongst the knight’s booty), and he would sneak away into the desert night. There, he would beat himself bloody, chanting all the while, begging for forgiveness for his sins. 

He would find purity in his self-flagellation. 

(But in the moment? Nicolò knew that with Yusuf’s lips pressed against his own, the weight in his chest had disappeared.)

He had never been more at peace.

~~~+~~~

“You are a foreigner?” the old woman wearing a large wooden cross around her neck asked eagerly. Nicolò nodded hesitantly, but was happy that he even understood her question. His Arabic practice with Yusuf on long rides across the Judean desert had allowed him a degree of fluency in that tongue, but he only knew bits and pieces of Aramaic. 

It had been more than a year since the fall of Jerusalem. After returning Beila to her family (“I wish I had known my sister sent you before I injured you,” the maiden had said. Her eyes held no real hint of regret. Nicolò laughed, “I came as an invader to this country. I deserved it.”), and killing her Norman captor (“You seem to be enjoying this one,” Yusuf had observed. Nicolò simply shrugged as he fed another arm to the hyena pack. They seemed to find the situation very funny), they had decided to travel east.

Nicolò knew the two women were heading towards them as well. He dreamed of them, scaling mountains, destroying armies, crossing continents (resting in each other’s arms during humid summer nights). They had a long way to go, so Nicolò felt confident that he and Yusuf could afford to dawdle.

They were half a day away from the town of Saidnaya. When they had entered the ancient sandstone city that morning, they were greeted by a crowd gathered around a central column. Muslims and Christians mingled together, sharing food and swapping stories. Nicolò initially assumed it was a market and approached a man with a basket of especially luscious figs. He seemed confused until Yusuf spoke to him in Aramaic.

They laughed and the man handed Nicolò three fruits before disappearing into the crowd.

“Doesn’t he want payment?” Nicolò asked Yusuf. In other Levantine towns, he had inadvertently extorted local citizens too afraid to charge a crusader a fair price. 

Yusuf shook his head, “It isn’t a market. They’re gathering to celebrate the feast of Mary, the mother of  _ Isa _ .”

Nicolò was shocked, “Muslims and Christians? Together?” 

They were interrupted by the arrival of a beautifully embroidered banner. The whole crowd made to follow it. Yusuf grabbed his hand and held it as they joined the loud procession.

His fellow marchers sang hymns, loudly clapped their hands, and stomped their feet. Some merchants even set off small explosives (fireworks, they called them) they had brought from the east. They followed a winding road to the base of an elegant monatery, adorned with elegant arches. In a single file line, they climbed up rickety stairs into a narrow rock passage. As they passed through the craggy sandstone, the crowd hushed. Finally, they removed their shoes to enter a smoky sanctuary filled with painted icons.

The only light came from tall wax candles. Each member of the multitude began their own silent contemplation as they stood before a painted wooden image of the Virgin. Soon, a sister came out to bless them, Christian and Muslim alike, with oil. Yusuf asked a fellow pilgrim who reported that it was said to stream from the icon itself and have great healing powers.

“Not that we’d need those,” Nicolò quietly joked. Yusuf hushed him, but smiled

As they were anointed, Yusuf squeezed his hand. He had not let go once on the entire way from the town center to the monastery.. 

The whole experience was utterly different from anything Nicolò had undergone in Europe. Yes he had followed processions, adored relics, been anointed. But he had never felt such a sense of community and connection. In the drafty Catholic churches and monasteries of his homeland, religion had been a tool of division. Pagan versus Christian, saint versus sinner, damned versus saved. Here, faith gave comfort and guidance on the journey ahead, regardless of one’s path in life.

(Perhaps, true Christianity was not defined by dogma. Perhaps, the purest Christianity was love unfettered from judgement.)

As they left the sanctuary, they were waylaid by a group of local villagers who insisted they return with them for the night. 

“Stay with us” the elderly woman clutched his hands in her own. They were strong, yet soft, “rest.” 

Now, they lounged in her courtyard as her neighbors streamed in and out of the front gate. She was clearly a leader in her community, offering praise, admonishment, and advice to all members of the village, regardless of age, gender, or faith. Nicolò sat, cross legged next to Yusuf who frantically tried to keep up with the pace of the conversation. Eventually, when the talk became too rapid for translation, they simply settled into the music of a language they couldn’t understand. Someone’s mother-in-law was unreasonable, another’s brother needed a wife, another’s work was underappreciated; the rhythms of human life were the same wherever they travelled.

At sunset, Yusuf left the courtyard to pray, accompanied by the community’s Muslim members. The old woman gently pulled at Nicolò’s elbow, indicating he should rise and follow her into the house. The matriarch pulled open a warped wooden door, revealing a bedroom and pile of threadbare, yet soft-looking bedding.

“For sleeping,” the elderly woman winked.

Nicolò made to dissuade her of whatever she was insinuating, but she gently placed a hand upon his chest. Although the wizened woman was several heads shorter than him, he could feel his heart beating with fear. 

“My nephew is the same,” she said, switching to an accented Arabic. Nicolò was surprised. Had she been able to speak with him directly the whole time? “Such things happen, and I am an old woman softened by life. I have no desire to judge. You are safe here.”

She embraced him around his waist and Nicolò felt himself relax into her warm embrace. He had not been hugged that way since his mother died. She held him for a moment before letting him go.

“Thank you,” he said. 

She nodded, “Don’t stay up too late. If you need me, knock. I have my own… appointment,” She gestured towards the window and Nicolò saw Yusuf returning. He supported an elderly man carrying a prayer rug. 

Nicolò turned to see the old woman waving as the old man waved back, nearly losing his balance on the rocky ground. Luckily, Yusuf caught him. Despite her grey hair and missing teeth, the elerly matriarch looked more beautiful than a maiden welcoming back a knight carrying her favor. 

Later that night, when he and Yusuf had prepared for bed, they stared up at the ceiling. They had draped themselves onto pillows and drawn blankets over themselves, but were finding sleep impossible to attain. 

“Why do they have to be so loud?” Yusuf complained. Nicolò grinned. 

(Finally, he wasn’t the repressed one.)

“They’re in love,” he said simply, “and they have no shame.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You can’t understand them. They probably should be ashamed.” Yusuf threw a pillow over his head, “how long can they keep going?”

As it turned out, another half an hour. Finally, the rustles and cries from the other room grew quiet. Yusuf and Nicolò were left to try and forget what they had just inadvertently witnessed.

“Do you think the rest of the village knows?” Yusuf asked. Nicolò shrugged.

“What can anyone else say? ‘We’re going to punish you by making you die a couple months before you were going to kick the bucket anyway?’”

Yusuf tossed the pillow at him, “have some respect for your elders!”

Nicolò caught it. By now they had fought together, died together so many times that they were strictly attuned to each other’s movements, “it is not disrespect, but a genuine question. What can mortals do to prevent something if they cannot kill or wound the perpetrators?” 

“Nicolò-”

He rolled over to Yusuf and straddled his waist, mindful of the fact that they were both down to their innermost layers. He had long shed his sackcloth, so all he wore was an undertunic. Everything between them seemed so insignificant. What had once been years of ideology and unshakable shame had now narrowed to a few inches of air and layers of linen.

“I have decided something,” he declared.

“I believe God has tied us to each other and I see no reason to try to put our bond asunder. I will not refuse the gift of the Almighty,” Nicolò paused to lean down, “but even if this is a sin against God, even if this is a crime men will punish, even if there is nothing to judge or care about us at all and all of this is meaningless, I will choose to love you,” He was so close to Yusuf, he could hear his soft gasps at every bit of contact, “will you permit me that? Will you allow me to love you?”

Yusuf didn’t say anything. For a moment, Nicolò considered running. Perhaps he had read it all wrong, perhaps his feelings had changed since they had first kissed. Perhaps it had taken him too long to come to terms with his feelings and now he would lose his love forever. But then, Yusuf lifted his right hand to stroke Nicolò’s cheek. He held the left one gently against his neck.

“ Oh Sword, be kind toward a captive of love, who asks not, as a favor, to be freed by you!”

Before Nicolò could ask him what that was from, (“The poet and caliph of Seville, Al-Mu’tamid,” Yusuf had answered, “when I am speechless, the Iberian poets always have words.” Nicolò nodded, “Pelagius wouldn’t have stood a chance against him.”) Yusuf led him into a tender embrace. As their limbs entwined and their lips met, Nicolò knew that he would never be able to resist this temptation again. 

(Whether his life ended tomorrow, or at the Judgement Day, Nicolò would spend the rest of it loving this man. He refused to ever be ashamed of it again.)

~~~+~~~

Glossary

_ Habibi (Arabic) _ : beloved

_ Frater (Latin) _ : brother

_ Capisco benissimo, s’immagini (Italian) _ : I quite understand

_ Conoscente (Italian) _ : acquaintance

_Amico (Italian)_ : friend

_ Zina (Arabic) _ : An Islamic legal term referring to illicit sexual relationships

_ Inshallah (Arabic) _ : God willing

_ Min fadlak la tamut, albi (Arabic) _ : Please don’t die, my heart

_ Isa (Arabic) _ : Arabic name for Jesus

References

_ “Brotherhood of Vice: Sodomy, Islam, and the Knights Templar” _ by Mark Steckler

[ http://www.calstatela.edu/sites/default/files/centers/perspectives/New%20Web3%20PDF/volume%2034/Steckler.pdf ](http://www.calstatela.edu/sites/default/files/centers/perspectives/New%20Web3%20PDF/volume%2034/Steckler.pdf)

_ “The Salacious Middle Ages”  _ by Katherine Harvey

[ https://aeon.co/essays/getting-down-and-medieval-the-sex-lives-of-the-middle-ages ](https://aeon.co/essays/getting-down-and-medieval-the-sex-lives-of-the-middle-ages)

_ “Medieval Parasites”  _ by Katherine Harvey 

[ https://aeon.co/essays/medieval-people-were-surprisingly-clean-apart-from-the-clergy ](https://aeon.co/essays/medieval-people-were-surprisingly-clean-apart-from-the-clergy)

_ “Women in the First Crusade and the Kingdom of Jerusalem” _ by Maria Carriere

[ https://cedar.wwu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1120&context=wwu_honors ](https://cedar.wwu.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1120&context=wwu_honors)

_ “Cannibals and Crusaders” _ by Jay Rubenstein

[ http://courses.washington.edu/holywar/Links_files/Cannibals%20and%20Crusaders.pdf ](http://courses.washington.edu/holywar/Links_files/Cannibals%20and%20Crusaders.pdf)

_ “The Role of Homosexuality in Classical Islam” _ by Stefanie Lee Martin

[ https://trace.tennessee.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1231&context=utk_chanhonoproj ](https://trace.tennessee.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1231&context=utk_chanhonoproj)

_ “Hrotsvit of Gandersheim: Her Works and Their Messages” _ by Kathryn A. McDonald-Miranda

[ https://engagedscholarship.csuohio.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1772&context=etdarchive ](https://engagedscholarship.csuohio.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1772&context=etdarchive)

_ “Why Muslims See the Crusades So Differently from Christians”  _ by Missy Sullivan  [ https://www.history.com/news/why-muslims-see-the-crusades-so-differently-from-christians ](https://www.history.com/news/why-muslims-see-the-crusades-so-differently-from-christians)

They named him Sword; two other swords: his eyes! 

Both he and those two are ready to slay me! 

Would not one slaying by sword have quite sufficed? 

Yet by his eyebrows two further blows were dealt!

I made him captive~ his charming eyes in turn 

Made me his captive: now we both are masters, both slaves!

Oh Sword, be kind toward a captive of love, 

Who asks not, as a favor, to be freed by you!

  * Al-Mu’tamid ibn Abbad



**Author's Note:**

> Whew. This was a beast, but I’m happy to say my first fic on AO3 is finally finished. I would appreciate any constructive criticism or feedback y’all would be willing to give.
> 
> Any objectionable beliefs expressed in this work are meant to serve as an exploration of the time period and are not expressions of my personal beliefs. If y’all believe that I have inadvertently included harmful tropes, characterizations, or talking points without properly contextualizing them, I would be happy to have a dialogue about any criticism. 
> 
> I have included the background research for this fic above.
> 
> I hope y’all are safe and well. Stay inside as much as y’all can and wear a mask.


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